


The Title of Troublemaker

by drpickles



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood and Violence, Bodyguard, Domestic, F/M, Fantasy, Friends to Lovers, Murder Mystery, Slow Romance, i guess?, main female is a little shit, main male is a little aggro, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:28:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25416181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drpickles/pseuds/drpickles
Summary: [Fantasy with heavy Greco-Roman aesthetics]Years ago, the royal family hired a strong arm to keep the country's princess out of trouble. Years later, they are aware that this decision was entirely useless. If anything, it only made her worse.A story about a princess and a soldier working together to cause mischief and also to bring a stop to mischief that was not previously condoned by them.
Relationships: Morally Grey Princess/Morally Grey Soldier, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 1





	The Title of Troublemaker

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely non-historical, as you can probably tell. Just going hog wild with it. Take the mix of Greece and Rome as the fantasy cocktail it is. Rated-M for all the fights, but I imagine they're tame. Anyway, please enjoy!

A tall, intimidating man of dark complexion and dressed in armor fit for a soldier banged on the heavy wooden door separating him from his charge. He tried waiting a few moments, to see if his ears could pick up the shuffling of feet or a sound of any kind. Nothing. Down the hall, a boy on watch side eyed him; looking for all the world like he wished he could crawl into the crevices.

For this intimidating man, Lysander, had a reputation—not a kind one, or even a remotely good one. He was an ambitious man, to put it politely, and a downright brute, if one wanted to be blunt about matters. He grew up working the fields of Omphalos, with little love in his heart for the trivialities that came with nobility, but all the drive to have the power that came with it. He spoke to the nobles the same way he spoke to his fellow soldiers or even to a wastrel lying face down in the street.

Unsurprisingly, there was little that could be done against him. Not when his feats of strength showed the obvious: he was blessed by the God of Strength, and that was an invaluable asset to the royal family.

Speaking of, he banged on the door, louder this time. “Open this door before I break it down.” It was not a threat, but a promise.

Then, he heard it. The softest of sighs and the tell-tale whisper of movement. So, Lysander thought, she was in there.

The wooden door opened slowly. Unexpectedly, what greeted the aggravated soldier was not the sleepy visage of his charge, but a walking cocoon.

Thespesia—the Princess of Foteinos, the King’s beloved daughter, and Lysander’s charge—was wrapped head-to-toe in blankets. The smallest opening between layers of fabric allowed Lysander to peer in at the sweaty, disgruntled face of the Princess. She did not look well at all.

She was a tiny thing, normally. Time spent wasting away in the archives and head nestled securely in her books kept her olive skin just this side of pale and her body thin as a reed. The flush of sickness did nothing to add to her appeal. Though, she most likely didn’t care.

Thespesia coughed. One skinny arm poked out of the bundle of blankets to clutch it closed around her and the other held a fistful of papers. She handed her guard the documents, which he took with an upturned eyebrow. “My brother owes me for this,” she took a moment’s pause, “I’ll make sure he pays me back this time. And, tell my mother if she wants me so desperately at breakfast, she can be the one to drag my body down the stairs.” She seemed satisfied with her message and nodded to herself. She said, “Goodnight, Lysander,” then she promptly shut the door in his face.

Well, she looked like shit, was Lysander’s first thought. Then, he grumbled about being tasked as messenger boy. Turning, the soldier made for the dining hall. The papers in his hands were unremarkable enough. A few pages were a little crumpled, but there was no doubt each page was carefully written in the princess’ neat penmanship. She liked her numbers, but there was no doubt Thespesia was attentive and dutiful in all her work. Lysander sighed; she probably did her brother’s homework for him again.

When Lysander reached the dining hall, with its white stone walls laden in finery and long wooden table filled with delectable dishes, he had to take a moment. The Queen’s eyes had landed on him immediately, her dark features and stunning face offset by the entirely unamused look on her face.

“The princess is ill and bedridden,” was Lysander’s answer to the queen’s obvious question. Lysander stepped forward to hand the papers to Thespesia’s brother, the heir apparent of Foteinos, Foloi. He was a few years younger than Thespesia, but his features were entirely of a man full grown and his well-kept beard a mark of a maturity. Somehow, Foloi managed to acquire every bit of his parent’s looks, charisma, and disposition—all the traits that apparently skipped Thespesia.

Foloi seemed to immediately brighten up at the papers. The prince whispered, “Thank you, dear Seesa,” and he damn near looked like he wanted to kiss the thing. Far be it from Lysander to ruin the young man’s good mood.

The king called for a messenger, and he asked that they grab the household’s physician to see to the Princess. At the same time, the Queen had cast her sharp gaze to her beloved son with such an intensity, Lysander felt a drip of sweat down his neck. He bowed out of the hall with the messenger just as the Queen asked so very softly, and laced with the strongest poison words could hold, “Did you make your sister write your proposal for the symposium?”

Lysander made sure to make his stride just a touch longer. It was nothing that he cared about, but the Queen was a force to be reckoned with when she got proof that her children were ruining the sanctity of academia. Gods save the Prince and Princess.

* * *

As a member of the royal family’s guard, Lysander was obligated to remain ever at his mistress’ side. At least, officially, that was what he was paid to do.

Thespesia hated when he hovered.

So, after many years and many fights, Lysander learned how to make use of his time when the princess otherwise did not need to be coddled by his presence. He was a strong man, and the world needed strong people. Best not to remain idle, is what Lysander thought. It helped that she never left the estate willingly without him, and there were always watchmen standing nearby should she want for anything.

It became a relatively normal affair for Lysander to leave behind his gold-accented armor and the ornamented ptergues—the obvious display of his esteemed position as protector of royalty—to set out and enjoy the bustle of the capital. Only, his idea of enjoyment was on the vicious side.

Ámetros, the capital, was dense and a maze of white stone buildings and gravel streets. People were gathered outside of the estate in the only great expanse of open area in the entire city. It was the beloved heart of Ámetros—the _agora_. The white streets met together in this one space, with many colored tiles paving the area in a mosaic directly before the royals’ household. Groups of scholars spotted the area with their simply colored tunics and the heavy clasps atop their shoulder to signify their school or apprenticeship. Stalls with brightly colored goods were set up by merchants wearing a variety of colors and outfits—whatever best displayed their home country or the quality of their goods would do. Civilians could be caught mingling around the center, too, in their simple white linens.

The city was busy and warm and noisy. Perfect.

Lysander, for his part, mixed in well with the eclectic mess of people. His tunic was simple and he carried no weapons, for he did not need them. The only piece he wore of extravagance was a short, blood-red chlamys the Princess had gifted to him years ago. It was sturdy, expensive material. The fabric was slung around his shoulders in a way that it didn’t cover his arms and clasped together over his right side. He’d used it one too many times to staunch the blood flow of an open wound, but it washed well enough and Lysander was too accustomed to its weight on his shoulders now. Thespesia had once offered to replace it for him, looking a tad disgusted at his use of it, but he refused.

He mingled with the capital’s people. Though once feeling like a stranger in foreign waters, Ámetros had become Lysander’s home many long years ago. He wasn’t sure if any of the merchants or civilians knew he was protector to the princess—perhaps they just thought he was hired muscle for the estate—but that didn’t stop them from seeking his aid from time to time.

An old fishmonger, located close to a stretch of the Galliki River that ran through the capital, hailed Lysander from afar. “ _Ya_ , soldier! Saw some trouble afoot this morning: drunks and swindlers walking the streets like it was their own,” the old woman said, gesturing towards the residential district that lined the Galliki. She didn’t appear fearful so much as she was just exasperated by the whole idea of it.

Lysander looked over in the direction she had gestured vaguely at, crossing his arms over his chest. “You sure your old eyes weren’t mistaking some earnest workers making their way back home?”

The fishmonger waved him off, “With daggers out? By the Gods, if that was how they were raised.”

He would have a look—might get a small reward for his trouble. He thanked the woman and set off.

In fact, it did not take him long to find the miscreants. Some odd turns through the maze of streets brought Lysander to an obvious display of thuggery. Three thugs surrounded an old man, who laid on the street in a drunken haze as he wailed with slurred repetition, “Please, please, no.”

Lysander moved closer. Two strong men stood while an equally muscular woman, lazily holding a dagger, squatted next to the prone man, crowding him against the entrance of a house. They all wore black tunics, but beyond their musculature they inspired no great fear within Lysander. The woman was talking to the drunk, but she was too quiet and the drunk was too loud, and so all of their attention was focused on anything but Lysander’s encroaching figure.

Good for Lysander because espionage was never his specialty. When within touching distance, Lysander companionably placed his hands on the two men’s shoulders. “What appears to be the problem, friends?” Lysander asked with fake cheer.

The two standing men tensed, reaching for what Lysander expected were their own hidden weapons. Their reactions were slow and easy to counter.

Lysander used the hold he had on each man’s shoulder to shove them right into one another. The man on Lysander’s right was just small enough to smack his forehead into the other man’s chin in a solid ' _thwack’_. Stumbling and grunting in pain, the taller thug held at his jaw protectively. With barely a moment needed to shift his weight, Lysander kicked forward to his right. It was a gratifying, firm connection of foot into flesh. The resounding crack of the thug’s head colliding with stone was wretched. He left a tell-tale smear of red as he fell to the ground, and he made no motion to get back up.

Soon enough, the remaining man had steadied himself, with a finger on a blade hidden by his black clothing. Lysander grabbed the folds of his tunic, bringing him closer, and reeled back with a bare fist. The punch connected and elicited an even more pained cry than the thug’s last. He crumpled in on himself, trying to stop the flow of blood gushing from his nose. Lysander took this opportunity to firmly plant his sandaled foot into the other man’s face—taking enjoyment in the sickening crunch he earned.

The squatting woman, though initially startled, righted herself and went for a swipe at Lysander. She was fairly tall with good musculature, but the grip she had on her dagger was unconfident, as though she had just come to own it.

She rushed him. Lysander easily dodged the swing and used her movement to push her body off balance. As she fell to the side, he grabbed hold of her arm and moved to snap it behind her back. He twisted until there was the audible cracking of bone and the dagger eventually dropped from her grasp as she grunted in pain. He felt and heard the snap of her arm as he exerted perhaps too much pressure on it.

Bandits? Or were they collectors? Lysander gave the woman a firm whack on the head against stone to knock her out. The daggers were too expensive and the fighters too unimpressive. If this was a debt collector’s doing, it was a mystery how they made any business.

The drunken man, in all the madness, had crawled as far into the threshold as he could. He clutched his tunic—exotic looking fabric, probably a merchant—firmly. “Mercy!” he cried out, “Please! Tell Abies I’ll give him whatever he wants!”

Lysander looked back, perplexed. Abies was the king’s name, after all.

* * *

A small hand wrapped itself into the crook of Lysander’s right arm, over the visible skin between the armhole of his tunic and his leather bracer. “I heard you saved the merchant over by Galliki,” Thespesia spoke to Lysander like a co-conspirator in a most secretive heist. Which she was, once or twice, usually when Lysander wanted to bribe someone with good food and drink that was meant for royalty or the like.

Lysander hummed. This caused his charge to tug at his arm a bit as she said, quite upset, “And you didn’t tell me! I had to learn about it from the girl grabbing my laundry!”

He gave the Princess his attention. She looked, in so much as she could, normal. No sweaty, boiling red face. No bundle of fabrics to hide away her tiny frame. Her dark, thick hair was loosely braided over the shoulder and she wore an inconspicuous, yet clean, chiton. She seemed… fine.

“You slept through the next day, and then the day after that,” but then he added, after looking at her menacing stare and frown, “I was going to tell you about it.” Because, yes, of course he was going to, but not while she looked ready to keel over at a marginally brisk wind.

She scrunched up her nose in distaste, but dropped it almost immediately to ask instead, “Did you get a nice reward from him? Apparently, he makes a lot of money from the vineyards.”

This made Lysander smile, because yes, he certainly did. He supposed the coin was both a ‘thank you’ and a plea for his discretion. Although he wasn’t wearing his golden armor then, the monstrous display of strength left few guesses as to who Lysander was and who Lysander worked for.

He considered taking the money and telling the city guard the merchant’s words anyway, but kept silent. There may be more to this, and Lysander wasn’t about to let someone else take _his glory_.

But, Lysander also knew, he could never keep a secret from Thespesia.

“There was something,” he began, then looked around the hallway they were in. A few servants milled about, but no one appeared interested in their conversation. Thespesia took this moment to vaguely mention she needed to go to the archives to pick something up. And so, they began walking.

Lysander lifted his arm a touch to allow her an easier grasp. No one in their right mind would want to be in the archives—except for Thespesia—so they had come to make it a semi-hideout for their schemes and plotting. Of which, there were many.

Thespesia exhibited equal parts spoiled, rich brat and troublemaker. Four years ago, she lost her claim to the throne as eldest when she spat in the wine of a visiting king—though she was doubtlessly perfectly happy giving the title to her younger brother. She was as much of a non-traditionalist as her father, but lacked every ounce of charisma and patience that exuded from the king. She was no stunning beauty, unlike her mother. Thespesia had passed the prime age of marriage for women of noblity, and was unlikely to marry into greater money or power than she already had. She was, entirely, a failure of a noble.

Yet, somehow, Lysander had remained by her side for well over a decade. He might even accept that what they had was… _friendship_.

“He was an absolute drunken mess when I got there. Man was so loud I can’t help but wonder if those collectors wanted to be found,” Lysander said, ready to boast to an eager listener.

“I heard they were big brutes with swords the size of a grown man, they probably figured they could handle anything,” Thespesia tried pointing out.

“I handled them in a moment without any of my weapons. And, it was daggers. Say, this big,” Lysander gestured as well as he could with his hands in a vague approximation of the dagger’s size. Thespesia exhaled air from her nose quickly, letting a small smile grow on her face.

“You broke a man’s nose. With your _foot_?”

Lysander shrugged. “Self-defense? What do you want from me?”

Thespesia shook her head and let Lysander express the crunchiness of their skulls under his shoe. She had an aversion to blood, which he enjoyed teasing her about whenever the mood struck him. Thespesia countered with a pinch to his exposed skin.

They continued like this down the stairs to their destination. Before a large, wooden door, Thespesia lifted her hold from her guard’s arm and fished around her belt for the key. Originally, the estate had an actual historian keep order in the archives, but Thespesia grew such an attachment to the room she became its keeper several years ago. Not that it wasn’t used by others, but its dingy insides contrasted so greatly with the crisp, white walls and stateliness of the rest of the estate that most people grabbed what information they needed and left.

Upon opening the door, she lit a lantern close to the doorway and walked inside. Lysander followed her and closed the door behind him.

The princess turned to him and titled her head, motioning with her hands for him to speak.

Lysander crossed his arms over his chest, “He didn’t say much, just rambling nonsense… until I walloped the others,” Lysander shrugged. “He started babbling that he’ll give ‘Abies’ everything.”

That obviously wasn’t what Thespesia expected. A bewildered expression flew across her face while she asked, “Father?”

“Perhaps? Is the king the only Abies in the city? In Foteinos?” Lysander scratched idly at his stubbly chin. He needed a shave.

She titled her head. “It is… an uncommon name, but…”

Lysander made a noncommittal noise, before stepped towards his charge.

“Here. Look at this,” he said, as he reached to his leather belts and the dagger strapped there. She gingerly took the dagger from his offering hands, giving it a once over.

“It’s a solid make, good weight to it. Feels and looks expensive, so I can’t imagine some derelicts owning it,” Lysander said aloud.

Thespesia quickly reminded him, “They could have stolen it.”

But, Lysander shook his head. “They all had one. All of similar quality.”

The Princess looked a tad lost. Foteinos was not a country known for making quality weapons, even less so for any old bandit to get their hands on. She looked at the dagger in her hands in consideration.

Lysander barely left her to her thoughts before he leaned forward minutely and said with a hint of smugness, “Perhaps this will be the uncovering of a most exciting tale. Using the King’s name isn’t a light claim to make.”

She refocused on him and gave an unimpressed roll of her eyes. He knew Thespesia was interested, despite her response.

She sighed to herself, though. “This isn’t much to go on. My father does not like to use hired thugs for any dealings, and he tries to remain as open about business as one can be.”

Lysander made a motion with one hand, as if brushing her statement to the side, “It could be nothing or it could be something. I figured you would want to know.”

She shook her head before saying, “No, thank you for telling me. I’ll see what I can find out.”

He nodded. If anyone had the ability to snoop through confidential records with ease, it was the princess. She had years of sneaking and learning the best ways to ask for forgiveness after being caught under her belt—truly an artist.

“But, enough of this for now. I have a problem and I need your help,” said Thespesia.

This should be good, Lysander thought. He leaned back and rested one hand over his hip.

“Mother and Father are forcing me to go to Parini after I—oh shut it,” she mouthed off at Lysander after his face took on an amused tilt.

“Parini, huh? Not many nobles would snub a retreat like that.”

“The physician said, ‘She’s weak of body and mind from too little prayer, have her go to the temples of Parini’,” The princess threw her arms up at the apparent audacity of the physician’s words.

“When do we leave?”

“We-... I... no, I don’t _want to go, Lysander_ ,” the princess’s pale face took on a flush as her supposed servant did not listen to her.

Lysander looked down at her, slightly cocking his head to the side, staring. She squinted back at him, anger growing in the knit of her brows. There was good food and wine at stake here, so for once Lysander did not budge at her stubbornness.

Thespesia caved, whining out, “I will never trust you again. Never.”

A smug grin played at Lysander’s lips. “I’ll try to stir up as much trouble as you wish.”

That appeared to placate the princess, unfortunately.

* * *

The journey to Parini was a day’s ride. The capital’s maze of buildings and abrupt cliffsides became more rural as they followed the busy road between cities. It was a well-guarded route, which made Thespesia’s plea for a small accompaniment easy. In fact, the king had laughed and said, “I thought you would run off with your guard, like usual.” Not the most flattering thing to hear from your father, but Thespesia was grateful for the freedom it allowed her. Doubtless, no one outside of those very close to the royal family would even know it was the princess, anyway.

As they traveled, Thespesia did not try to hide her growing discomfort. The blossoming red on the bridge of her nose and her disgusted noises as she wiped away beads of sweat only demonstrated just how unused to hardship she was. When Lysander was new to his post, he had taken personal affront to that. He even said to her face how spoiled she obviously was, but as with many other things Lysander had said over the years, she cared little. Her response: “I will do what I’m able, and you can do what you are able” was entirely within her character and had angered Lysander, at the time.

As he grew older, and spent many years beside Thespesia and her family, he came to understand what she meant. The current seated king and queen did not hide their love for their children, but they also expected their best efforts in everything they did. The princess was good with numbers and cautious, so she assisted the family in financial matters; Foloi was good with people and decisive, so he acted as representative to the family when their father and mother could not. The family used that levelheadedness in all things, which allowed Foteinos to prosper.

And, that made the mystery left by the merchant’s words even more puzzling.

Out here, even in the midst of fields and workers, there was no sign of destitution. The royal family practiced common sense and every due precaution to make sure every mouth in Foteinos was fed. Was the king the type of man to raise a blade against his people? Lysander considered the idea.

Looking over at his charge and her sweltering face, he couldn’t help but shake his head. Lysander nudged his steed to move closer to the princess’ own before he reached into a side bag. He offered her a hood to cover her head—perhaps it would help block out some of the summer sun.

She eyed it up as she held it in her hands. “You didn’t bleed on this one, did you?”

He shot her a cutting look. “No, but maybe I will. Later.”

She stuck her tongue out at him before wrapping it loosely around her head, letting it cast a shadow over her face. It seemed to at least lessen her discomfort. Her small disgusted sounds lessened as she wiped away her sweat.

It did make Lysander wonder, however, when he had become so soft.

* * *

They made good time, and so the first thing the pair did when they reached Parini was visit the old temple. Thespesia was not particularly devout, but her mother could smell a hint of impiety from a mile away. The princess also suspected if Lysander had outed her to her mother before when she lied about her prayers. He would do that, Thespesia knew, because he’s an ass. When they finished, the sun was low, and so they decided to make way to the family’s estate in Parini.

Parini shared the same white stone buildings and streets as the capital, but it was built along the cliffsides overlooking the beautiful salty sea. Vineyards and gardens surrounded her; the city was a scene beyond compare.

And, Lysander thought, the wine wasn’t too bad, either.

The family used to make fairly regular trips to the seaside town when Thespesia and Foloi were still children. It became less common as they grew older, assumed more duties, and Thespesia became more reclusive. Therefore, when they entered the estate, it was to no one’s surprise that the solitary worker left to watch over the place looked anxious and completely overwhelmed.

Thespesia scrunched up her nose. There hadn’t been enough time between the physician’s demands and the pair setting off for the family to hire additional help. This was fine for Lysander as all he needed was a pit to light a fire and he could get by. Thespesia dug through a closet to find a rag or two to wipe off as many surfaces as she could. She had the worker make the food they were already in the middle of, and set Lysander to help her with making the space up to her exacting standards. He was almost impressed at the princess’ work ethic, until she nearly broke her hand trying to lift a reasonably hefty piece of furniture. After that, Lysander shooed her off like one would an annoying dog under their feet.

By the time food was prepared, Thespesia deemed the eating and sleeping areas in acceptable condition. Lysander rolled his eyes, but waited for the princess to motion for him to sit and eat beside her. They shared a warm meal together—the harried worker eventually breaking down and joining them for a drink—before settling down for the night.

In the following days, Thespesia favored the shade of the port and its marketplace. She refused to meet with Parini’s wealthy, and likely would not be returning to the temple before it was time for their journey back to the capital. This gave her few options in where to spend her time, but at least the sea breeze provided her some comfort against the heat and the overbearing press of bodies.

On a particularly busy hour, while enjoying a few sips of wine from a modest seller along the port, Thespesia’s body pushed into Lysander’s side abruptly. The suddenness at which she straightened herself and reached to the belt around her waist, Lysander had a good guess as to what happened. He looked around her and saw the retreating body of a child.

Thespesia muttered under her breath about little thieves, and watched the child disappear into the crowd. Lysander shifted, ready to chase down the little pickpocket, until she waved it off.

Sighing, she said, “Leave the child be, they’ll be caught sooner rather than later with skills like that.” Lysander agreed inwardly, but he still tutted at her laissez-faire attitude at being robbed. Thespesia had the good sense to leave Lysander with most of the money. All she kept was some pocket change, as few would take their chances with trying to rob from an armed brute of a man.

It still rankled Lysander to do nothing.

“I didn’t know you were in the business of paying thieves, now,” he grumbled her way.

She merely waved him off, then eyed him slyly. “I didn’t realize you enjoyed throttling small children—and they call me the troublemaker.”

He cracked his neck and defensively crossed his arms over his chest. “No, that’s very much still your title.”

She rolled her eyes at him before handing the rest of her cup over for Lysander to finish. She pointed to one of the bottles on display, “I’ll take that one back to father.” Lysander gulped the remainder down and reluctantly reached for the coin purse at his side. It _was_ good wine.

* * *

They took their time leisurely exploring the sights of Parini. With Thespesia’s body growing more accustomed to the heat, she complained less, thus making Lysander’s time in Parini damn near enjoyable. They gossiped about the politicians that neither of them liked, laughed at a sordid tale Lysander told, and planned their journey back home.

In the very same moment that they agreed they would return to Ámetros the next day, Lysander peered down a row of houses. What he did not expect was the hunched up back of their little pickpocket friend from earlier. Thespesia appeared to be surprised as well. They exchanged looks, and walked up behind the thief. It was a little girl.

She knelt on the ground, peering around the corner. Apparently, completely wrapped up in whatever she saw because Thespesia stood rather close. The princess even began peering around the side of the building with her. Lysander found it only fitting, and moved to look around the building, too.

“What are we looking at?” he asked.

“I saw some men enter a house,” Thespesia answered, as if talking about the weather.

“They keep coming to the rich man’s house,” said the little child. Then, realizing something was terribly wrong, shot up from her kneeling position and immediately whacked her head against the hard, stone wall. The poor kid slid back onto the ground in a heap, clutching her head in pain, and spouting out curses that would make Thespesia’s old tutor blush.

Thespesia looked terribly like she wanted to laugh at the child, but enough years at court allowed her to mildly ask, “Are you alright?”

She looked up at the pair, stricken with fear, and said, “Please don’t hurt me. I don’t have the money anymore.”

The princess looked insulted that anyone would think she would hurt a child, then reminded herself who she was with. “Don’t worry, he won’t lay a finger on you… even if you did steal from me,” she sniffed a bit at the end. Lysander would roll his eyes, but instead caught sight of a flash of movement down the pathway again. Two black-clad people bolted from the house, escaping opposite from where the trio stood hidden.

Thespesia caught sight of Lysander growing tense, and nodded her head for him to check things out. The child quietly asked where he was going, but Lysander’s steps were too fast, too long.

There was a single, faint footprint in red outside of the house. Thespesia was behind him, and so was the little pickpocket. He made a face at Thespesia, best to not let the little girl see anything, and she immediately turned to the child to ask her to get help.

She looked fearful at going to the city guard, but eventually said, “My house is just down the street… My mother will get someone,” and she sprinted back down the way they came.

Thespesia took a look into the small window beside the entryway and immediately flinched away from what she saw.

“Oh, no, this is just like the time in Euroba,” Thespesia said quietly, mostly to herself.

Lysander quirked an eyebrow at her, and she had to shoo him off—a light push and a whispered “Go, go! Don’t let them get away!” His tracking was decent and she was an old hack at playing the terrified damsel that just found a dead body. Unfortunately, in Thespesia’s humble opinion.

Truthfully, having the princess around limited Lysander in some ways, but it emboldened him in others. He enjoyed the praise of the people and being able to display his competence as a soldier, so it was with little urging on Thespesia’s part that sent him sprinting after the murderers. Not altruistic, by any means, but Lysander barely knew the meaning of the word.

With the girl off to get help and Lysander off to capture villains, Thespesia was left to open a door.

A door that was absolutely going to have a gruesome scene behind it. She plucked at a bit of loose fabric on the sleeve of her chiton. She hated blood.

But, curiosity and a natural inclination for trouble won out. She opened the wooden door.

This was obviously the man’s home—a bed in the corner, surrounded by knick-knacks and the trappings of daily living. Boxes containing textiles and paintings lined the walls of his house, like a dragon’s hoard of riches. She looked towards the center of the home; there was food on the table. He had been eating his supper, or getting ready to do so, before his ‘guests’ arrived.

And there, on the floor, was his body. He wore a basic brown tunic, left dark and sodden with blood. With his back to the floor, Thespesia saw a terrible slash across his throat—the cause of so much blood pooling around him.

Poor man, Thespesia thought.

One of the victim’s fingers twitched in his bloody puddle, and Thespesia physically jumped. Was he still alive, Thespesia anxiously thought. She moved just a touch closer, looking at his face. It looked vaguely familiar, but the gush of blood that poured from his mouth quickly stopped any further thoughts in Thespesia’s mind. She made an entirely undignified noise at the sight, turning away and covering her face for a moment.

The man’s eyes would not focus, it was a surprise that he still breathed, but nothing tangible came from his ruined throat. Thespesia wanted desperately to run away, but she forced herself to move closer.

Thespesia kneeled beside him. “Hush. Your pain will end soon. I promise we will find who did this,” she spoke quietly.

The faintest movement, his hand stretched out to a corner of the room, and then there was stillness. Thespesia smoothed his eyelids closed and said a prayer for his safe journey. Then, getting up and away from the slowly encroaching blood spill, she looked closer at the corner he motioned towards.

She spotted a box with a roll of parchment sticking out the top, and then there was the sound of movement outside.

A big, wall of a man came charging at Lysander around a bend of white stone buildings and rocky cliff face. Lysander barely managed to step out of the way. This man, clad in simple black robes, carried a bludgeon the size of a small child in his hands. For such a large man, he certainly was quick.

Lysander had no shield, but at the very least he had his sword on him today. He unsheathed it from around his waist. The next attack that came sailing towards Lysander was a downward drive, straight at his head. It was a heavy swing, with a lot of body mass behind it—difficult to parry with one hand. The sliding of metal against metal sung through the air, and Lysander took a quick step back.

The attacker went for another hit on his upswing. The bludgeon flew past Lysander’s face, mere inches away. It was a close one, but left the man vulnerable for a split second. Slashing up and across, Lysander’s blade sliced through well-muscled chest and shoulder, pulling not a sound from the assassin. However, blood splatted out and onto the white streets.

Lysander’s attacker shuffled back a bit, caught off guard by the cut that now marred his torso. It would be better to keep this one alive for questioning, but Lysander thought little of it when he used the precious few seconds of disbelief to wind back for a kick straight into the large man’s gut. He bent over, his hands loosened their grip on his bludgeon, and Lysander drove his sword down, clean through the man’s back and through his heart.

The assassin was dead before he hit the ground, and Lysander took deep breaths to calm his rapid heartbeat.

He pulled out his sword and wiped as much of the blood off as he could on the other man’s clothing before sheathing it. He took a quick look over the body—any papers, any sort of identifier he might be able to find would help. There was another dagger hidden away in the folds of cloth, of similar make as the others, but nothing to make Lysander’s life easier.

Sighing, Lysander stood and cracked his knuckles irritably. He had to get back to Thespesia.

He found her again within the protection of a swarm of worried neighbors and curious rubberneckers. The city guard had been called, and with their presence what felt like the rest of Parini seemed to magically appear. The little pickpocket was there, holding the hand of a tall woman as they watched the guards inspect the murder scene. When Lysander moved forward, the child looked like she was about to call out, but one look from the soldier had her swallowing her words back down in fright.

When Lysander was beside the princess once again, she looked at him questioningly. He nodded his head away from the crowd, and she easily followed his lead. Before they made it too far from the throngs of people, however, the girl had shuffled up behind them, demurely looking to the ground and holding something in her hands.

“I… I’m sorry. I won’t steal again,” and thrust out her arms with the princess’ pouch firmly in her grasp.

She quirked an eyebrow at the child. “I thought you didn’t have the coin any longer.” But, she plucked the pouch up and took a quick look inside, counting and assuring that everything was still inside.

The little girl looked off to the side and seemed to ramble about scary warriors, but stopped when the princess shoved the coins right back into her hands.

At the girl’s confused stare, she elaborated, “It’s payment. For your good work. That’s how one usually gets their coin, these days.”

The child nodded dumbly and stood for a moment before the pair. At the call of the tall woman, her mother most likely, the little girl swiftly straightened and ducked her head in a ‘thank you’ before running off.

Lysander’s eyebrow twitched as he watched the little girl trot off, “She’s going to get a taste for stealing from dainty little pushovers, you know?”

“Shush, and please tell me you didn’t rush off for a drink without me,” Thespesia said, as they began their trek back to the Parini estate.

“No, but I did kill a man,” Lysander responded. He was sure to watch her face as he said it; the appalled expression she made was essentially priceless.

“What, and you just left the body?”

“Dumped it into a ravine. Likely won’t be found for a long time.” She made a disgusted noise at him.

“Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself, but we have work to do when we return,” she spoke as she slid out a bit of parchment from between the folds of her chiton.

Lysander huffed; feeling a mixture of jealousy that he had not found anything to aid in the search, and pride that his charge was able to get a lead. As he walked her back to the estate he figured, at the very least, there was one less of those idiots running around Foteinos.

* * *

The next day, after paying respects to the Gods in the early morning light, they left Parini behind. Thespesia was obviously itching at the chance to delve into what she found: a list. A list that hinted that the poor dead man found in a puddle of blood was perhaps not as innocent as they initially believed.

Lysander put two-and-two together; the man was a smuggler. The list of goods and its recipients a veritable treasure trove of underground peddlers within Foteinos, and perhaps beyond. The names attached held no meaning, at first glance, but Thespesia had quietly suggested that they could be pseudonyms. It would be a bit of work, but she seemed thrilled with the prospects.

Not Lysander’s idea of a thrill, sure, but the princess was an odd one.

As they traveled back to the capital, they chatted idly but left much of their journey in comfortable silence. After a bit, while Lysander figured Thespesia was inwardly rattling off possible criminals within members of the court and the king’s council, she struck him with a sincere question that almost had him toppling off of his horse.

“What will happen if I am married?” she asked, quite simply.

Lysander’s body had physically recoiled as the question registered. When he turned to face her, it was so quick he felt, and heard, the snap of his neck. He made a disgruntled noise—both at the question and at the pain.

He squinted at her. “What? What are you talking about? Are there even any suitors out there that would want a wife who spat in a king’s cup?”

She seemed to expect he would bring that up; her quick retort was not nearly as angry as he hoped it would be.

“Any king that thinks they can speak to the princess of a country they are a guest to, like she’s beholden to listen to his disgusting remarks on her body, deserves far worse than spittle in his wine,” Thespesia said.

Lysander had known it didn’t become more of a problem because of just how daring the visiting king was. If King Abies, a man well-known to dote on his daughter, had ever learned the truth… well, it would be spectacular, Lysander thinks.

The princess sighed unhappily. “I meant our _adventures_. Would we still be able to get into this kind of mischief if I have to worry about a household?”

Her tone seemed to take more of a considering lilt, but Lysander knew shit-all on how to answer her.

“Well, would you keep me as your guard?” he tried.

She sent him an entirely unamused look, as if he said something truly stupid. “Of course,” she said, “you’re mine for life.”

This made Lysander look back at her. Such royal snobbery. “What if I want more? A _real_ title? Are you going to hold me back?”

This seemed to confuse her. “Title? What title do you want? Lord Commander of Royal Guardianship? You’re already paid as well as a strategos.”

He knew this. He took the job because the pay was so good—for him and his family to live the remainder of their days without want. They kept the farm out in Omphalus, but after his father passed away his mother was able to employ workers to help with the fields. It made her life simpler. The fact that Lysander had every intention while growing up of making a name for himself beyond ‘farm boy’ helped ease the separation from his family.

“I’ll start with that,” Lysander said, and grinned back at his charge. “Maybe I’ll take title of king next.”

“You’d need to marry my brother for that,” she reminded him.

That made him face forward once again, disgusted at the notion. Around the bend up ahead, the hills would begin to reveal the capital to the traveling pair. Just before they entered such familiar territory, he said to her, “I’ll take you wherever you wish to go, so long as it means you get out of the damn estate.”

“Shut your mouth, Lysander,” was her retort. But, she seemed pleased.


End file.
